Where You Go, We Go, With Daggers Come to Our Bed
by yenneffer
Summary: The alternate tale of the love shared between Queen Guinevere, King Arthur and Sir Lancelot. Every story needs the end, the middle, and the beginning. Who are they to interfere with the order of things? (They're just people, after all. The Queen, the Knight, and the King. And their love is theirs, even if the story isn't.)
1. Chapter 1

**Full summary:**

She is Gwen (Guinevere, they call her now), the loyal Queen. He is Lancelot, returning to his once-home, wary and unsure. And he is Arthur, he who owns them both.

Would love them both, if only they would let him.

But in the end, they're just part of the story told many times over, and nothing ever changes, does it? But hush. Every story needs the end, the middle, and the beginning. Who are they to interfere with the order of things?

(They're just people, after all. The Queen, the Knight, and the King. And their love is theirs, even if the story isn't.)

**A/N:** Warning! This fic contains both slash and het.

It also goes AU after S2E05: _Lancelot and Guinevere_ - most importantly: 1) disregards how Arthur became King, and 2) Lancelot hadn't returned to Camelot before Arthur's coronation and marriage to Gwen, instead ending up serving as knight under another king.

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**Where You Go, We Go (With Daggers Come to Our Bed)**

**Part 1.** The End, wherein Arthur is romantically engaged and he snaps.

He was fuming; seeing red like never before, and he was afraid what he'd do if someone stopped him, _now_, because he didn't know what he would do to them. _Everything_, a tiny voice drawled.

The servants and knights he'd passed were all scurrying away from the angry king, afraid to murmur the slightest gossip, but the distinct part of him that was born a prince and then honed as a king knew the workings of the court to realise they would start the moment he was beyond earshot.

He didn't give a damn.

With purposeful strides he tore himself from the Camelot's corridors, stepping out onto the walls surrounding the castle. He soon found himself in a reclusive spot, the anger deflating during the hours-long solitude.

Arthur was bitter enough to recall the beginnings, gathering every feeling of distaste for his Queen and Knight he could get from those far-away, both in time and space, as Merlin would quirkily answer, snippets.

_First kiss was chaste; her lips surprised, but welcoming. Then she breathed into him, and he could feel life sneak into his limbs. Hands shaking, Arthur rose them to gently lay them on her waist. His eyes were closed, refusing to let go. Because, no matter how much he pretended and lived for that moment, it was just that: pretending. He was no commoner. He was not even an ordinary knight, proving himself in a tournament._

_He was a Prince. And Uther Pendragon's son._

_The spell ended when his hands clutched tightly- _once_- at the fabric of Gwen's dress and his eyelids fluttered open- many times furiously over- to reveal Camelot and the castle in the background behind Guinevere._

Arthur was still very much in love with the outspoken yet gentle creature that was his wife.

The stone was cool naturally; but under his heated brows the coldness turned into unnatural, creeping up his spine. Arthur shivered under the onslaught, unprotected and vulnerable. Because there was more.

There was always more.

_It had been a long day already when the news of King Ban's imminent arrival reached Arthur Pendragon's court. Everything had been made ready for the negotiations; Arthur himself was now calm and focused and firmly in control, awaiting for the honoured guest's arrival. The still young King spared a moment's thought at the distinct lack of Merlin by his side. Sadly, after becoming King he had very little time left for his friends- which simply accounted for his conclusion that being a king was highly overrated. Even when Merlin had been only his _manservant,_ they had spent more quality time with each other._

_Now, with Merlin as his advisor, Arthur had other menservants. Fully respectable, polite and ordinarily boring ones. He barely even saw them- and they were _never_ late. So not what he'd got used to._

_The delegation arrived; King Ban, a regal, middle-aged strong man, with a "prattish" Prince and a handful of knights, strong and wily._

_And Lancelot, of course._

_He was standing there, amongst the other Benwick knights, his face unreadable and eyes a hardened veil of glass. And Arthur wanted the mask to crack._

_Later, with the guests mingling amongst each other, and Arthur preoccupied (seemingly) with his important guest, the King's eyes strayed._

_And narrowed._

_It is a no small feat to strike a solitary figure at the table full of people, being surrounded on both sides by robust knights. Yet it seemed Lancelot managed to do exactly that, to Arthur's eyes. _

_If they were alone, he'd have done something direct. Clasp the other's arm, butt their heads together so Lancelot would wince and try to hide that (_Arthur hoped_), or deal a solid blow._

_Instead, he settled for seldom glances over a cup and pre-negotiation talks._

_There was always later._

'_Later' proved to be the disgruntled King wandering stealthily through the corridors of _his_ own castle, to reach the quarters assigned to Ban's knights, one fool's who had conveniently forgotten that he was Camelot's knight in particular._

_Arthur had seen him first (all right, so maybe Merlin had, but he didn't count. Merlin, thank God, was not a king). _

_So he was going to have a _talk_ with that certain someone. And then maybe throttle him and drag him off to... well, the particulars of his plan were still hazy, but he'd think of something._

_In retrospect, he should have realised the circumstances were perfect for a kiss._

_It was full of surprise; for both parties, even if later Arthur smugly told Lancelot everything had gone according to his plan. _

_So, surprise, teeth and slight stubble and _God_, if not for the guards (_his_ guards! whoever had ever claimed that being king was fun and that you could actually command people according to your own wishes? Like 'Leave your dignified yet horny king to his own devices and go guard somewhere else.' Was dead wrong), it'd have been more._

_By the time they sidestepped the suspicious guards, Lancelot had regained his composure and was all apologetic and 'sire'ing' him, his downcast eyes glancing up at Arthur every now and then. Arthur liked to imagine they held promise and coyness._

_But that would be so _un_-Lancelot-_like_, right? Too chivalrous and aware of status sometimes, he was. And Arthur had spent too much time with Merlin if he was thinking that. Why again could Merlin influence him thus and he Merlin - not at all?_

_Arthur sighed, stepped closer to Lancelot and was thankful that the other man did not edge away; he hoped it was not just a sign of respect for the King of Camelot. Hell, even stupefaction and shock would be better than that. He stretched one hand out, fingertips ghosting shortly over the hot skin on the nape of Lancelot's neck and the short curly hair there, and, withdrawing it, he wished the other a good night. _

_The next morning? 'Twas a haze, a pleasant and unpleasant both weaved together by his chaotic mind. He was a living, breathing thing with desires and dreams, and no words and actions to supplement them._

_Gwen was there. A warm Queen, a smiling woman by his side, not yet hindered by the cunning workings of the court._

_Fresh-warm-smiling._

_Was she even then looking to Lancelot, brightening her smiling lips upon seeing the dark knight?_

_When Arthur later thinks about that, pushing into a tanned hard body and sweating over quivering sinews and muscles, he knows he likes the soft-spoken lips and gentle eyes, both his lovers the disturbingly similar images of the same beauty of the world closed off. He likes the words they speak, the gentleness mixed with strength._

_It didn't start then; not for Arthur, anyway. He got down to his duties as king, doing his best for Camelot and suffering through interminable negotiations (he had to get Merlin for shrinking his duties; somewhere far away, the fool was probably laughing at Arthur being stuck in the mayhem of politicians' smiles and their oily promises). Gwen sat next to him through those, keeping her silence and looking regal. He couldn't believe how lovely she was, how lucky _he_ was._

_Lancelot got away from all this by going to the training fields. Someway, Arthur would get back at him for this as well, because he could imagine Lancelot and Merlin teaming up against him, both laughing at his expense, and he couldn't let that happen; thus, the rebellion had to be nipped in the bud._

_Arthur was truly a magnificent strategist. _

_Wishing king Ban a pleasant rest, and escaping from his over-loyal guards (Arthur suspected they were praying daily for a ruthless attack on his person so that they could sacrifice themselves for him, and really, could life become any more melodramatic in his castle?), he found himself perusing the city gardens, in a no-direct way heading towards the training fields. There was something he had to do._

_It was the voices that stopped him; sounds of laughter and suggestive whispers, whispers without words as he was too far away- or the voices were too quiet- to discern any. And Arthur had always been drawn to whispers._

_A researcher and adventurer in him smiled in glee when he stepped quietly forward, his curious self piqued when he knew he was hearing something that wasn't meant for him (no, it was not proper, but Merlin was not here to gloat over him, to scold or tease him; as long as _he_ didn't know, no one else would dare question him; sometimes Arthur loved the authority)._

"_Is it what you expected, then?"_

_A sigh, "Why is everyone asking _me_ this?"_

"_I don't know. Wait. I've got it; maybe because you were talking of Camelot since you've joined us, Lancelot?"_

_If the silence could speak of blush, this one certainly did. "Tradorn." An affronted look. And a blush._

"_Lancelot." The other, unperturbed._

"_If the two of you would kindly stop glaring at each other, I'd like to move on," a third voice interjected. "No point wasting a beautiful afternoon in a beautiful garden with two knights spoiling all the fun."_

"_So. The King seems young." _

"_Your point being?" Lancelot smoothly interjected, a slight thump indicating he had laid back on the grass._

"_He's younger than you or me, Lancelot. I believe it would have been strange, training under someone below my age."_

"_We will never have a chance to train under him, Tradorn. We are not the knights of Camelot," Lancelot replied in a smooth voice._

_Then there was silence._

"_I take it you would be happy then if you were to stay here."_

"_Lamorak?" Annoyed._

"_Yes, my friend Tradorn?"_

"_You're not making any sense. Why the deuce would we leave Lancelot in Camelot?"_

_Lancelot murmured something sleepily then, and his companions laughed quietly. Arthur could hear the laughter clearly, but sadly the sleepy tone of _his_ knight remained indiscernible._

"_So. Let's adjourn the facts; Arthur is young. According to Lancelot, he's a great warrior. Incidentally, the bards agree with that assessment, but then again one can never trust the bards. And Lamorak wants to leave Lancelot behind. Does that make any sense?"_

"_I have only one conclusion; your brains are finally addled, presumably after the fight with that wyvern."_

"_It was a basilisk!"_

"_Basilisks kill with their gaze," Lancelot remarked idly. "That thing was not a basilisk."_

"_How do you know that?"_

"_Someone told me, once." _

"_Didn't realise you knew people versed in monster's lore," a snort and a laugh. Arthur wondered if the man was there to give voice to his own reactions (which he couldn't give, himself, seeing as he was eavesdropping and aiming for quiet)._

"_Versed in dealing with them, I'd call it," Lancelot replied, stretching out further on the grass._

"_And I'd wager there're many things you don't know about Lancelot," Lamorak said matter-of-factly. "Like that he'd been to Camelot before." The sitting knight give the dark-haired figure sprawled on the ground a knowing look._

"_Come, Tradorn; let us leave our ponderous friend to his fond memories, and let's hope the less fond ones will stop haunting him in such a beautiful place. Till later, Lancelot! And don't fall asleep here lest any knights of Camelot decide to whisk you off somewhere so that you have to stay this time!"_

_With that, the two figures marched away. Leaving a thoughtful knight and a mischievous king to their own devices._

_(and Lancelot was lucky Arthur was there, for there would be no time for the knight to mope too long and think of any kind of leaving, if the King had his way._

_Which he would.) _

Arthur Pendragon, he knew, was not a vicious man; he got no pleasure from ordinary revenge, preferring to stoically think of a just judgement, a punishment suitable to a crime. But he was fiercely protective, and he did feel easily and keenly any betrayal.

This was a double blow.

He had loved, both of them, both of them separately. He knew he couldn't love them together, though. No matter the urgent pleas of Lancelot that Gwen should go free and he bear a punishment for the trespassing. No matter the bitter smile of Guinevere and the accusation of hypocrisy ringing in their bedchamber before she was led away, leaving the chambers once again empty and ringing in her wake.

He felt, curiously enough, as if he'd failed them both, being unable to stand up for them against the court and common beliefs. As if he'd fallen short of their expectations of a good man he was supposed to be. Arthur Pendragon, once again a prince unable to do the right thing, seeking an approval of a deceased king.

_What can I do_, he had asked once, as Gaius was led to his burning pyre. _The king has already given the sentence._

Only now he was the King.

_You can do the right thing, Arthur Pendragon. You can save an innocent man's life._

TBC

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**A/N:** I am not very experience in writing any kind of romance, so it'd be nice to hear your thoughts on how it went. Passable? Horrendous?


	2. Chapter 2

**Where You Go, We Go (With Daggers Come to Our Bed)**

**Part 2.** The Midpoint, wherein Guinevere finds joy and damnation, and Arthur and Lancelot are a cause of her downfall.

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This boundless, overexciting feeling within her - this was joy.

She swore she had forgotten all about it, lost it; the beautiful, regal Queen in swishing heavy robes who used to go out at dawn to gather fresh wildflowers - ordinary like she used to be.

Joy was love. Joy was life.

She had been lifeless and loveless.

"Guinevere..."

Funny how both Lancelot and Arthur called her that. How similar they sounded.

"I was certain I would never see you again... it's joy, to meet you now, safe this time," Lancelot said, his face radiant with what she knew was the first and strongest love.

She knew that from her own soul.

"Lancelot," she dipped her head at him, happy and free, even amidst the courtiers. She smiled at him.

She didn't watch his curving mouth when he answered with his own; instead she drank in how warm his eyes turned when he watched her smile. She watched him watching her, and she was in love all over again.

The same love she'd always felt for him. He was the first.

"My Queen," the dark-haired knight bowed respectfully (_faithfully_) before excusing himself and going to join the other knights. Gwen tugged a nervous hand at her hair, following him with her gaze. She was looking for Arthur, she told herself.

When she found him, her resolve strengthened. He was not only her husband, not only her King, but her friend as well. She couldn't betray any of that persons, and Arthur was all three of them. She went over to him, quieter than the morning mist, laying her hand on his shoulder, pressing her cheek to his back.

Inhaling deeply and closing her eyes, she knew she _was_ happy. This was enough, surely.

"So," Arthur said, looking down at her with gentle eyes. "You look as if you wanted to ask me something?" His eyes glinted mischievously down at her, and she had learnt to know and fear that look. _Where was Merlin when you needed him?_ He was the only one to rise to the challenge of Arthur's playful moods. The whole _kingdom_ could suffer the consequences of the lanky man's absence.

"Sire," she answered, her brow raised. Arthur snorted and looked out the window, caressing softly her arm.

"Can I threaten the Queen with a night in the dungeons?"

"I don't think that would work for your good standing, m'lord. Why would you do such a thing?" She asked, smiling at his slowly moving hand.

"A charge of avoiding answering questions and addressing me inappropriately," Arthur huffed.

"Surely not," she laughed, merrily.

"Oh yes."

"Pray tell - how many times have you threatened Merlin with that?"

Arthur's scowl returned at the mention of his friend, "Should have followed with those threats."

"You know you shouldn't!"

"_Mer_lin," he enunciated, "is not the greatest example of proper behaviour. Or trustworthiness."

"You don't mean that. Well, obviously you do mean the proper behaviour, not that he should be behaving properly," she blushed as she started talking too much again. This hadn't happened for some time. "You know," she finished with a sigh.

He looked at her, amused and fond, "Yes, I do mean that. How many years again had he been hiding that he was a sorcerer? Too many. Sneaky servants," he finished affectionately, looking at her with his laughing eyes.

She left him moments later, desolate.

She needed to find somebody for Lancelot. That would solve everything.

"My Lady..." Lancelot looked at her with hesitation, his hands playing absent-mindedly with a small boot dagger. Gwen looked up at him with that soft admiration one usually reserves for something that is pure and good in life, something beyond sullying.

"Lancelot," she responded, regally, demurely, but the twinkle in her eyes betrayed her joy and lack of regality.

"Will you walk with me?"

"Yes," she breathed out. "Yes, I will."

The meadow was in full spring, yellow, red and purple among the lush grass. White petals of daisies stretched over the distance, endlessly intermingling with the almost blue skies overhead. It was fresh; a kind of sparkling beauty you find in your first experience with snow. Accompanying the verdure were the sweet-smelling purple lilac flowers, their rich fragrance intoxicating the senses. It brought memories of times not-yet-passed, of chances to be realised, of deeds to be fulfilled. It spoke of lives that could be lived, in here, forevermore changed and unchangeable.

Amongst this natural beauty, just outside the walls of imposing Camelot, Gwen and Lancelot strolled leisurely. It felt peaceful and quiet. It felt right.

And it was dangerous.

"I know, Guinevere, that we can never be; that's not why I came here to Camelot. I could never hurt you like that. I could not destroy the life you've built. I... I wanted to see."

"It's all right, Lancelot," she smiled warmly, with understanding, at him. "What did you want to see?"

"If you were happy," he replied sagely, looking at her with the serious face that spoke of earnest desire to bring her a shining star.

She wanted to reply that she was; that were the words about to leave her mouth. They got lost in the unassuming exquisiteness of this place. "And am I?" she replied instead, far more seriously than she'd have liked.

He looked pained and- guilty - which made no sense, since it was not his fault she failed to appreciate all the good in her life. When had she become so picky?

"I..." Lancelot hesitated, closing his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, they were still pained, but also determined. "I have failed you, Guinevere. No, please, hear me out," he held his hand up when she opened her mouth to speak. "I have failed you and left you; I believed, at a time, that it was a correct course of action. That _I_ was right," there was overwhelming power to his words, a shockingly blinding faith that staggered her, made her chest swell with a feeling of fate closing in on them. "Please forgive me for abandoning you. I was wrong then, and my mistake cannot be rectified. I will not put you in a questionable situation, I will not endanger your honour and good name. But I will stand by you, be your friend and support you any way I can," he finished in a rush, eyes dedicated and pleading. She smiled at him and closed her own eyes, breathing in the scent of him, coupled with the freshness of the coming night and blossoming flowers.

They embraced, Gwen's eyes quietly sparkling with tears and Lancelot holding her gently against his chest while the evening approached.

Then came the end of all the good things in her life.

Surprisingly, it came together with the most beautiful feelings and moments she'd ever experienced.

_Gwen was an open woman, unable to lie even after several years of watching courtly games of deception present in every kingdom. She never allowed herself to be drawn into those games, though, always staying above it. But she knew the games were played._

_Gwen had intended to find somebody for Lancelot, play a painful role of a matchmaker for her beloved knight. Prepared to have her heart wrenched by the sight of him with another, sweetly enamoured, the Queen had begun her search. To her great surprise, the ladies - one by one - turned the possibility down. With something akin to fear mingled with regret, but none dared approach the dark-haired knight, no matter his handsome looks and prowess with the sword._

_As if there was a claim none dared challenge, bowing in respect to a higher power, and looking elsewhere for their usual amorous adventures. _

_During a dinner with Arthur, Gwen had noticed how absent-minded her husband looked. Idly playing with his food, he had been eager to finish, to stand up and leave. He hadn't, though, waiting silently for her. Avoiding looking in her direction, he had been lost in thought._

_She hadn't recognised the guilt in his expression or thoughts, then; she had thought he was simply busy and overworked. Nothing unusual for a king. _

_Later, quite by accident, Gwen had overheard the quiet murmur of voices she knew and would recognise everywhere. They were husky and hushed, not afraid but secretive. She lingered there, outside the closed door, but decided against staying and spying on the two she loved. It caused her heartbreak, to hear them together, to see them together, knowing she was a rift between them, and that she had a power to drive them apart._

_If only she knew then, how wrong and right she had been._

_Her eyes had been forced to open - and see - weeks later, when she would stop and remember in anguish having moved away from the shut door. _

_Lancelot was moaning, a low quiet sound eerily like crying, and she had been too curious, too wrenched to not peer inside. What she'd seen would stay with her forever._

_Arthur and Lancelot. Together. One writhing beneath the other, mouths open and panting, grunting with the strength of delivering and receiving the thrusts. Lancelot's face was sweaty where he laid, spread out under Arthur, who mapped his lover's body with his scraping teeth and lips._

_Arthur's iridescent blue eyes shuttered in the candlelight as he came, pushing himself one last time into the body beneath him, his breath hitching. _

"_We should stop, Sire," came the shaken whisper breaking a laden silence._

"_Yes. We should," the words, for all the irregular breathing of the King, remained steady._

"_I mean it."_

"_You always do," Arthur rolled to his side to face Lancelot. He took the other man's face between his hands, gently stroking and looking at him, hard. He kissed him, then, sated and pleasured and Guinevere had never hated anyone as much as she did at that moment. _

_Witnessing the intimacy, the quiet moment, she wept silently for her lost husband and would-be-lover._

_And in the safety of her own chambers, she raged._

_On the outside, nothing had changed. There were no broken vases, no clothes strewn across the floor, nothing to show the Queen was in a state of uproar._

_Inwardly, there was only one thought. Why, asked continuously, and left unanswered._

_After hours of silent and heartbreaking vigil, she was decided. The loyalty she'd felt all her life was gone, dead inside her chest. _

"_Lancelot," she greeted, surprised. She felt too weary to smile._

"_My lady," the man bowed his head. She watched him carefully, curiously. There was shame written over him, over his posture and haunted face. Unwillingly, her heart went out to him, to his wounded eyes. _

_He had hurt her, yes. Something he promised he'd never do. But he wasn't the one to betray her, not to the extent of what Arthur had done. _

"_Walk with me?" she suggested, sadly._

"_Always."_

"_I'm lonely," she started, staring with unseeing eyes at the foliage of the great oak beneath which they were sitting. "That's the greatest unhappiness of my life; after Morgana had left, there was nothing for me here. My father, dead. My greatest friend, gone. And I, stuck here. How I wished to go look for you, find a life with you, back then," she stopped, sighing heavily. He was sitting unmoving next to her, his hand rubbing soothing nonsense into the skin on her arm. She continued speaking._

"_After that, I've built up something of a life here. Helped Gaius around, spent time with Merlin, married the King. But it's never been full; it's never been the same."_

"_I understand," he said, squeezing her hand. She squeezed back, reassured._

"_I understand, because that's what happened to me, as well. I was a wanderer for years, moving from place to place, never staying for longer than a few nights. I joined the party of King Ban, became his knight. But it has never been home. It was never right, felt only temporary. My whole existence felt that way. I could only live for the future when I could return to Camelot, but I started to realise it would never be," Lancelot paused, deep in thought, and Gwen inched closer to him, recognising a kindred spirit in a lonely man. _

"_I wanted to return, so that I could live for a purpose; to protect and defend defenceless people. Arthur was the king I wanted to serve, you the lady I wanted to love. But it all got lost on the way."_

"_It did not," she argued, fiercely, urging him to look at her. She would not let him speak like that, not again. It didn't matter what had happened between Arthur and him, suddenly, not when they were here, Lancelot again speaking with that despair eating away at his soul. She remembered the last time, what he'd almost done then. "Look at me, Lancelot. Not all is lost. Please, believe me."_

_And then she kissed him. Taking both Lancelot and herself by surprise._

_It was not revenge on Arthur. No, it was not. She didn't like revenge, didn't like the consequences of that. Dire consequences for all three of them. Maybe she desired to hurt him. For him to be in the same situation she'd been in. But never cold-bloodied revenge. Lying entangled in the sheets and her lover, she drifted off to sleep, aware that there was no coming back. But, remembering Arthur's lips sucking on Lancelot's throat, she wasn't sure if she wanted to. _

Imprisoned in a fair room, Gwen knew it was an end. She had played, she had hurt and been hurt. She had loved, and been loved in return. And she had been happy.

Both men she was entangled with in a bond were so similar that she had always had trouble picking between them. And the point is, she never had; when Lancelot had left, the choice had been postponed. When he returned, it was too late as she was married to Arthur. But with the lack of choice, the existence of two options hadn't stopped to taunt her.

There was a similarity between her and Arthur; they both loved Lancelot. And there was the same similarity between her and Lancelot; they loved Arthur. This triangle was their prison, and now - it was up to Arthur to shatter it. She hoped someone would be there for him when she and Lancelot were dead.

"Gwen?"

"Merlin?"

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Where You Go, We Go (With Daggers Come to Our Bed)**

**Part 3.** The beginning, wherein Lancelot's story comes full circle.

* * *

He rode heavenwards. That was what it felt like.

The heart - his hardened by time and people heart - was steadily melting with every smooth step of his galloping steed. The grass was disappearing beneath the pounding hooves, fast and glorifying, Camelot.

He rode heavenwards, and he was afraid.

Reining in his bay horse, he came to a stop on the top of the hill just outside the borders of the Pendragon's Kingdom. Grass stretched out before him, in springtime bloom. Lush and covered in morning dew.

He spotted the nearby woods, his hands imperceptibly tightening on the reins. The horse shook its head, nervously pawing at the ground with its front leg.

Lancelot patted it soothingly, his eyes still piercing the black-green foliage, assessing, always assessing and cataloguing the possible dangers.

Years had taught him well.

Yet there was nothing he could discern from his spying spot, so he spurred the stallion down the hill, down from where he had a chance of glancing the castle walls.

Down from where he could spot his heaven.

Trotting to the edge of the trees, he took a quick glance around before dismounting. Patting the bay's neck, he edged his way into the covers of the trees.

Dark and damp, and so very dark. His step was cautious, careful in a reverent way and his boots were already sinking into the moistened ground.

It was dark and whispering of danger, and he knew no matter how good and trained his eyes were, if someone - or something - wanted to hide here, the chances of him discovering it were slim to none.

He sighed to himself. King Ban was counting on him, trusting him.

He trusted him, Lancelot, enough to place his knights and his life in Lancelot's hands. To spot the danger before the company rode down.

His longing for Camelot growing, now that it had been allowed to rise from its dormant state in the corner of his lonely heart, fully delegated to it (even thoughts of Gwen were forbidden entry into that murky territory) he cast his eyes into the shadows coiling beneath the majestic trees, wondering if it was nature or magic, or if there ever was any distinction between the two entities or if it were Men – small and lost, without understanding – who persisted in imposing boundaries on the Undividable. Whatever the nature of the gathering darkness, it seemed to pose no immediate threat to the approaching party. Lancelot tightened the reins and halted the bay's progress, then turned around to canter back to report to king Ban (he balked, still, at calling him his, at claiming possession even while he yielded to Ban his own loyalty).

They camped when the night fell and rose with the dawn. The king estimated that they should arrive before dusk that day and they made ready to ride out again, to fair Camelot and the young King who sat within her walls, with the kind-hearted Queen by his side and surrounded by the bravest of knights, the kind that bred stories and tales that spread far, far away.

Once upon a time.

Legends say that all in King Arthur's eyes are equal, that courage and loyalty serve him like old friends, as he serves them. But what do legends know?

Once upon a time, Lancelot had arrived to Camelot with a heart swelling with hope. He dared not believe in it, yet he yearned... And succumbing to the temptation of dreams come true, he turned to be a disappointment; he had proved to himself, even as king Uther was knighting him, that he was not worthy.

Was he now? He had passed many trials, fought many beasts, both mythical and man-originated. And yet he had also lost a half of his heart, his wonder and belief. What use did Arthur have of bitter, world-weary, battered knights?

Knights sworn to another, no less, even if at heart – or perhaps especially then, because what use is a double-edged loyalty to anyone? Unfaithful to one are unfaithful to all – they remained his?

He bent low over the horse's mane, happy for the wind that blew all thought and matter out of his head, thankful for its cooling hand upon his heated brow and sweat-soaked hair, appreciative for the idyllic sounds and smells it carried. They rode over the grassy plains, entered a terrain yellowed from wheat that grew there and passed through, their horses drawing increasingly heavy pants of air; their nostrils had begun to foam when at last, from beyond the green veil of the trees' crowns, they glimpsed the castle's fortifications, the high walls glinting in the afternoon's heavy sun. They had ridden hard and made good time. The men and beasts were weary, yet they rallied and fastened their pace, riding with heads held high, the horses' hooves beating a thunder rhythm upon the earthy path that soon turned to cobblestone and then to smooth marble floor of the castle front yard, stampeding horses descending on the city.

They reined in to a halt in a synchronic wave, each pair of knights passing the stillness like an honour onto the pair riding behind them, and it spread like a rapid gossip until all men and beasts resembled still statues, with the former sat upon the latter's noble backs. Waiting and watching as the king of Camelot greeted the king of Benwick.

Finally, they dismounted; the unified front they had been presenting until that point broke under the pressure of exhaustion, the long ride obliterating pride and appearances. Even the inevitable chaos that snuck into their ranks had a distinct tired air to it; there was no squabbling or teasing present, every man, knights, prince and king, lost in their own ruminations.

Lancelot loosened the girth on the saddle and distractedly patted the bay's neck. It was a loyal creature, and he found comfort in its unassuming presence that patiently stood beside him while the grandeur walls of the past – despite the frequent sieges and calamities that befell Camelot, nothing had changed in its outward appearance – closed in on his from all sides. It was like being struck head-first with a heavy brick. There was no escape now, he thought even as he heard the gates falling shut behind his back.

He released his equine companion to a stablehand that had come to fetch the animal and darted a furtive look around, wondering if he would spot any familiar faces−

Only to meet the King's eye, fixed with an intense, displeased look on him.

Will the History truly never cease repeating? For all his past that had hardened him, here Lancelot was, once again an unsure supplicant before his better's disapproving, assessing gaze.

Where was Merlin, the ever-friendly face? Where was Guinevere, the calm reassurance against his own inadequacies raising their ugly head in this face of judgement?

Where was Lancelot, a knight and warrior in his own right?

Longing, once released, took supreme reign over every crevice of his ravaged heart.

_What had happened with Arthur on the evening after the welcoming feast was irreversible the moment it happened. Lancelot had been surprised that the King had decided to search for him but when he bid him to enter his room, when he saw the wildness and determination shining in his liege's (always and forever – what is there to reclaim?) eyes, he had a dawning premonition that whatever proceeded would have colossal consequences. Yet who was he to refuse Arthur anything? He longed to serve him, become his knight once again, wipe the dark blemish that rested upon his name._

_Arthur knew his infamy, and yet he had come to search for him. This is when the decision had been made._

_Therefore the kiss that Arthur hungrily poured into his mouth, a statement of intent and claim, was welcomed with freely opened arms and eyes shut to un-see the fate they had just incurred. The gloomy vision refused to be dispelled. _

_Arthur hadn't exactly run that night, but it had been a close thing; not that Lancelot knew about that, since he stubbornly refused to crack an eyelid, pretending for a moment longer._

_Now even that was futile; not only had their act been irreversible, it was also irreparable. Walking beside Gwen, kind, beautiful, his beloved Gwen, kneeling periodically to pick wildflowers for her, their simplicity emphasising the beauty of her dark tresses, he could feel the guilt eating away at him, creating a chasm between him and the woman he loved._

_For the second time in his personal history, Camelot had brought him both joy and pain. He feared that this time riding away towards imagined future brave deeds would not be an option he could take. _

It was more than a tumble of limbs; he agonised about Gwen when he was lying beside Arthur, he mourned for Arthur when Gwen slumbered, cradled like a precious gem between his arms. He had splintered them apart and filled them with himself; he was the guilty party, so where was his punishment?

When and under what colour would it present itself? He wished for a long sword, a knightly death. He feared his friends' – his family's – faces when they would inevitably find out about the other angle of this triangle.

Man and wife. And Lancelot.

Yet he could no more deny the pleasure he felt in their company than he could order his body to stop taking breath; their warmth drew him in, cajoled him to stay a little bit longer.

He always did.

Whether it was a breathy moan of Gwen or a brilliant smile of Arthur didn't matter; he could refuse neither, drew his own pleasure from their happiness. If only the fallout could burden him alone, and spare them; if they could still be, as they had been in-between knowing him; remain unchanged and undefeated by this hurdle in their relationship; he would be glad, then, to lay his life at their feet, serving them even as he drew his final breaths.

"Merlin should be back soon, I think," said Gwen, her smile brightening. Merlin, who brought joy to friends. Merlin, whose absence spread a new wave of melancholy through Lancelot at Gwen's words so that he staggered, grieved. Even with Gwen strolling at his side, the noises of the city alive from dawn to dusk coming from near distance, he felt suddenly bereft. Merlin, who was his first friend in Camelot. Merlin, whom he could never see again.

He would not understand this betrayal. Even worse, they would force him into a position of picking sides. He'd pick Arthur, obviously, but to burden him, this man who is a friend first and foremost, who is loyal so quickly, and to make him choose and forsake his friends? How could they do that? And continue doing that?

Lancelot didn't know the answer to that. He and Gwen sat down in a shade of trees, a safe and proper distance between their knees, her purple dress pooling in a creased mass of fabric against the stain of grass, his dark leggings stretched parallel to her bent legs.

They talked about the past, a far safer topic than future.

Sometimes, he secluded himself away to count the times he'd been in Gwen's bed and add them to the times he'd been in Arthur's. He tried to make the arithmetic oblige and tell him if between all those times, they still slept together.

Other times, he spent whole days immersed in training, winning bouts against other knights, both Camelot' and Benwick's finest bowing before his strength, born from desperation and guilt.

He sparred with Arthur frequently and then forgot about anything but the younger man's blade, skilled and ferocious, because Arthur gave no quarter when he was training. Another thing that remained unaltered, passed by a flow of time.

He won eight times out of ten, resulting in a sweaty, tired knight and a disgruntled King. Later Lancelot would smile, all teeth bared in humour, while he and Arthur wrestled like little children, a game played by all boys employed by two grown men, with bare arms locking around each other while they played at battle.

Merlin's eyes gazed unblinking at him, looking disconcerting from behind the bars. The events had come full circle, then. Here they were again, Lancelot imprisoned and Merlin trying to help him.

"What about Gwen? If I escape, won't the attention focus on her instead?"

"It is now focused on her. She's the queen; you, my friend, are just a lowly knight. This is how courts work; the bigger fall is always more spectacular to watch."

Lancelot snorted, "Since when have you become a politician?"

"Since my bull-headed friends need me to be one, apparently."

"I'm sorry."

"I know. Please go; I'll try to free Gwen too, you should go away together. I don't think Arthur will guard you closely. He doesn't want to see either of you go to death."

So in the end, Arthur would remain behind, standing alone.

**The End**

**A/N:** So that's the end of it. This fic was a way of checking if I can manage to write romance. It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be, but that is mostly due to the fact that the characters were very agreeable to this. I mean, the first thing that comes to mind when you think of Lancelot, King Arthur and Guinevere IS romance. No matter what changes are introduced by a retelling. And I rather loved the BBC Merlin's interpretation.

So thanks to anyone who's read this. I hope it wasn't too horrible :)


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